


let me be your shelter (never leave you all alone)

by eichart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Brotherly Love, Hurt/Comfort, Not Incest, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, idk this is really just a bunch of wholesome senarios if u feel???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11573814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichart/pseuds/eichart
Summary: Or maybe——Willy doesn’t know when this started. Doesn’t know what this means, only that he loves Alex more than he loves anyone –than he could love anyone. And there will always been some part of him that needs to protect him.Some people don’t understand it; he’s long stopped expecting them to.





	let me be your shelter (never leave you all alone)

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _brother let me be your shelter_  
>  never leave you all alone  
> i can be the one you call  
> when you’re low  
> brother let me be your fortress  
> when the night winds are driving on  
> be the one to light the way  
> bring you home
> 
> \- “[brother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61Wm_qlVD4Q)” // needtobreathe

 

When he was born there was no way he could have known that Alex was to follow, but Willy doesn’t remember a time before him; doesn’t remember what settled in the then empty home of protectiveness that surges up every time Alex is hurt.

Maybe—

—it starts when Willy is only six. When Alex gets stung by a bee and starts to cry, and Willy is there not seconds later. Even then there’s a sense of responsibility, an innate desire to make the pain stop and still the tears. He needs to do something,  _ anything _ , because even then he knows he hates seeing Alex like this.

But he’s six and there’s not much he can do besides pull Alex toward the house and yell for mom.

Maybe—

—it’s when Willy is ten. When Alex gets hit in the face playing shinny in the street, rubber ball promising to leave black and blue marks. He sees it happen in slow motion, the snap of a stick against rubber, the way it careens the wrong way too quickly, the way Alex drops to his knees with hands clapped to his face.

He doesn’t hold back his anger when he yells, no matter how misdirected it is. Logic slips his mind and he says what needs to be said, shoves a little harder than he needs to, and collects Alex under his arm to bring him home to get ice.

Maybe—

—it’s when he’s fourteen and they’re out on the crisp ice hardened over the lake. An early spring makes the ice crack beneath Alex’s feet, and all Willy can think is how much it sounds like a gunshot. His breath is knocked from his lungs, ice running through his veins as if he’s the one plunged into the frigid waters below. (And in a way, it is –Alex has always been some part of him).

He doesn’t hesitate to slosh knee deep in freezing water to haul Alex out. Alex shivers in the crisp winter day, and he doesn’t  _ hesitate _ to peel soaking layers from his brother’s skin and wrap him in the warmth of his jacket.

It’s a cold walk home –he hardly feels it.

Or maybe—

—Willy doesn’t know when this started. Doesn’t know what this  _ means _ , only that he loves Alex more than he loves anyone –than he  _ could _ love anyone. And there will always been some part of him that needs to protect him.

Some people don’t understand it; he’s long stopped expecting them to.

…

Willy knows Alex best; knows his favorite food and what song the surround-sound should play to lighten his mood. It is Willy who can read the truth from blue eyes and the slant of shoulders when everyone else is willing to believe the lie. It is Willy that Alex turns to again and again without fail.

These are just truths (constants that can’t be undone so easily –not even in the wake of angry words and raised voices), not a measurement of care. Because Alex is loved by those who matter the most; more than loved.

Just sometimes Willy feels like some things just fall naturally to him –the gift of being the eldest child, an anomaly in his childish nature. Like now when he thinks that Alex maybe looks a little pale at the breakfast table this morning, a little drawn and tired, like he’s about to put his head down in his pancakes and take a nap right there.

He’s not the only one throwing worried glances though, Dad pauses at his place over the stove, Jackie blinks and frowns before reaching across the table for the strawberries.

No one says anything, and Alex remains oblivious to it all.

Dad gives him a significant look as Alex pushes strawberries around his plate, but Willy doesn’t ask either –he knows he won’t get a straight answer out of Alex anyway.

_ This _ is not a new thing either, and Willy knows.

He leaves his bedroom door ajar that night; some part of out a gnawing instinct that pauses his hand before the handle clicks into place, some part out of a habit cemented into muscle beside slapshots and dangles (not erased even through months).

He’s not really asleep when the door whispers the rest of the way open, not yet –just laying with his eyes closed and waiting for the tick of his thoughts to slow to a bearable pace ( _ waiting _ for this persistent worry that’s been festering over Alex’s dark circles to subside, and knowing it won’t).

“Willy.” It’s a quiet admission, laced with exhaustion and heavy with resignation. Willy twists, finds himself letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Alex?” He doesn’t need to ask, but he does anyway.

“Did I wake you—I’m sorry. I—“

“ _ Alex—“  _ Willy interrupts, sheets rustling as he pushes them back. “Just—we’ll talk about it in the morning. C’mon.”

This is routine.

And they won’t –talk about it, that is. He’ll wake first and gently extract himself from Alex’s clutching fingers. He’ll tuck blankets tight in his absence and pad quietly to the kitchen to make coffee and avoid Dad’s gaze. But maybe they don’t talk about it because they don’t need to –because  _ this _ is something not said so much in words.

The floorboards creak under Alex’s weight and again as its sudden absence as the mattress digs and Willy wiggles over so that he’s not so much sprawled out in the middle of his bed anymore.

It’s been a while since they’ve done this –Willy’s been playing five hours away in Örnsköldsvik and Alex has learned to cope without him. They’ve grown in ways that can’t be seen through a screen or pressed through the speakers of phones. Yet—the way the mattress dips is anything but foreign.

And Willy thinks that maybe he had been waiting for this too.

Will hasn’t been taller than Alex for years now; somehow, that still doesn’t matter. Somehow, it’s as if they’re still kids, upcast in a life bouncing across the states with a change in contracts.  _ Somehow _ , it’s nearly the same, the weight next to him and Alex breathing “I couldn’t sleep” into Willy’s chest as he tucks his head under Willy’s chin.

It’s easy to fit his arm around Alex’s shoulders even if they’ve broadened. It’s easy to let their breaths fall in sync. This protectiveness –Alex will never outgrow it; not even time can wear it down from where it rests next to Willy’s heart.

“I’m sorry.” Alex whispers.

“You don’t have to be.”  _ Not for this _ .

“I just –couldn’t sleep.” says Alex, and it’s more than that. It’s so much more than that, but with Alex here curled into his chest and eyes screwed tight as if to hide the truth the dark doesn’t obscure –Willy gets what stretched into the silence, what’s say in the dig of Alex’s nails and the uneven way he breaths.

Of course he does.

“I know…” murmurs Willy into golden hair. Alex, somehow feels small huddled like this in his bed, and Willy pulls him close, tugging blankets snugly over their legs. “I got you.”

_ I always do _ .

Alex sighs and Willy feels the tension start to drain from his shoulders. It’s with Alex’s head heavy on his chest that he listens to his breath even out into the throes of slumber before drifting off himself.

…

The fighting isn’t really a surprise when it inevitably surfaces. They fight about everything –tv remotes and dirty laundry and  _ is that my fucking shirt, I  _ knew _ you took it _ . Verbal, physical, there’s really no telling what’s coming next, when he might end up on the floor because Alex has a bone to pick (and yeah, sometimes,  _ sometimes _ , it’s a valid point).

And this is an accident really. They’re wrestling on the bed for some stupid reason or another ( _ maybe _ Willy had stolen Alex’s favorite sweatpants again,  _ maybe _ he’d eaten the last of the chocolate ice cream out of the freezer too). Whatever the reason, Alex has got Willy pinned against the mattress with a knee digging painfully into his side. But Willy’s never been one to go easy and upends him to start the tussle anew.

Neither of them see the edge of the bed, but they both definitely notice when they go right over to collide with hardwood floor.

This is also far from the first time that’s happened.

“Ah, fuc—oommppff.”

Gravity does its worst as Willy lands hand on top of Alex, who promptly shoves him off as he bites back a wince. “ _ Asshole _ .”

Willy shoves back, a laugh already primed to roll off his tongue when Alex’s face involuntarily screws up in pain again. “Oh shit—“ It dies quickly in his throat, weight shifted back to his heels as he regards Alex from an arm’s length. “—you okay?”

“ _ Fine _ .” Alex replied haughtily, but Willy thinks his voice maybe sounds a bit tight. However, any further contemplation is quickly dispelled as Alex gives him another rough shove to the shoulder, pushing him down into hardwood floor as he scrambles to his feet. Willy watches from the floor as he gets flipped the bird. “You better wash those.” says Alex, before slamming the door behind him.

It’s at the dinner table later that Willy is roughly reminded of the tussle as Alex winces while reaching for the salad. A sharp prickle of guilt pierces his gut. Eyes narrow in his direction, a not so subtle kick angled beneath the table at his shin.  _ I’m fine _ , Alex mouths.  _ Asshole. _

Still,  Willy knows what he sees, knows he’s not exactly the lightest person in the world nor is the floor in Alex’s bedroom made of feathers. So later, he drops an ice pack into Alex’s lap while he’s sitting on the couch, brows quirked challengingly upward. “Take it or Dad’ll never let me hear the end of this.”

Alex rolls his eyes, crosses his arms. “It  _ is _ your fault –you took my sweatpants.” The ice pack remains untouched.

“As if you don’t have any others!”

“Not as nice as  _ those _ .”

“Just – ice your fucking shoulder.” Willy drops down on the cushion next to him, exasperated.

Alex shoves at him again, fingers digging sharply between his ribs, and Willy pushes back sparking the fight anew.

Eventually, they tire and Alex ends up sprawled between Willy’s legs, ice pack wedged between his shoulder and Willy’s stomach.

…

Sweden is not  _ new _ . They’ve been here every summer and even a summer house counts as a home.

And sometimes, when Willy thinks of home, he thinks about Mom and Dad and Alex and the girls instead –because when you’re shuffled place to place, home stops being tethered to brick or stone or wood siding, and more with a feeling –the warmth that curls around Alex’s laugh and the smell of smoked salmon.

In some ways, their house in Sweden is the only constant through the years. That an hockey –the two tenants of the Nylander name.

( _ And tennis _ , Jackie would budge in, indignant).

But Dad retires and they finally take up deeper roots in the country of blue and yellow.

And with summer drawing to its inevitable end, and Willy returning to the states, one warm night they party hard.

Probably too hard, but what’s a summer without going out with a bang?

Willy’s got one eye on Alex as best he can to make sure he’s not going too wild and doesn’t wander off. But he’s also good at multitasking, and pretty soon the bottle he’s got his fingers wrapped around feels significantly lighter. He switches his bottle for a colder, heavier one, briefly loses track of Alex (panics), and then promptly finds him again by following the unmistakable sound of his laughter.

He’s pretty far gone himself by the time he gets an arm around Alex and drags him from where he appears to be attempting some form of ‘dancing.’

It takes a while for them to get to their friend’s house despite the short distance, distractions plenty and giggling abundant. Alex is something close to a dead weight hanging off his shoulder, swaying between laughing hysterically and petting Willy’s hair. But they make it back eventually – _ miraculously. _

Willy drops Alex onto the guest bedroom mattress and tugs off both their shoes. He strips down to his briefs, briefly considering the merits of sleeping on the couch before deciding he doesn’t give a fuck and passing out on top of the comforter next to Alex.

He wakes to a too bright sun and a rattling in his head –hangovers are the fucking  _ worst _ , but this one doesn’t even crack his top ten.  _ Thankfully. _ Alex is still passed out beside him, grumbling about something in his sleep, legs pulled up toward his chest.

Willy’s still debating whether to search for some Gatorade and aspirin (knows he should, but also kind of wants to just close his eyes and drift off again), when Alex rolls right into him, limbs thrown out so he’s half-sprawled over Willy.

“Ow.” moans Alex into Willy’s ear, and it is far from endearing. Amusing perhaps, but Willy’s also only half awake at the moment. “Fuck,  _ ow. _ ” repeats Alex, eyes cracking open a fraction before sealing shut once again.

Willy half-heartedly pushes at Alex’s shoulder, trying to lever his heavy body so he’s not suffocating. He gives up pretty quickly and just lies there with his eyes closed. It’s another ten minutes before his gets himself moving again, wiggling out from under Alex and stumbling down to the kitchen to retrieve Gatorade and water from the fridge.

He returns feeling sufficiently more alive, and pokes the ice cold bottles into the sensitive back of Alex’s neck, earning a sound between a yelp and a groan. “Fuck off.”

“You need to drink this.” Willy insists. “Really.” Any response is muffled by the pillow Alex has his face buried in. It sounds vaguely like another  _ Fuck off _ . Real creative.  Willy leaves the water on the nightstand next to a small mound of aspirin. “Well, when you really wake up then.”

Alex shuffles into the living room nearly three hours later, rubbing at his eyes and dragging fingers through hair already sufficiently mused. “He wakes.” Willy says dramatically from his position on the couch. “How’re you doing?”

Alex just kind glares sleepily at him and shuffles toward the bathroom mumbling about a shower.

“You’re welcome!” Willy yells after him.

…

They’re at some hole in the wall pub, not the cleanest place around but one with the best food and cheap beer. Alex is in the middle of a story, eyes bright even in the darkened placed, arms moving enthusiastically. Willy watches fondly, content for now just to listen.

It’s by chance, really, that he spots the bruising running up Alex’s arm.

“Where did you get that?” Willy asks suddenly, leaning forward and reaching for Alex’s wrist. He tugs the mottled arm closer to him, a gently finger running over the bruising. Against his thumb, Alex’s pulse races.

Bruises and marks are not uncommon with them –comes with the package of being a hockey player, part of the life they’ve both chosen and love. And yet, the markings twinge at a spot a worry, furrowing brows and layering voice with thinly veiled concern.

Alex tenses beneath Willy’s grip, pulls his arm away as he mumbles, “Nowhere. It’s nothing.” He doesn’t meet Willy’s eyes either.

“You don’t get marked up from  _ nothing. _ ” Willy says.

“I said it’s nothing.”

“ _ Alex— _ who did this to you?”

“Just –stop worrying about it, Willy. Stop worrying about me.”

“Tough luck, then. I’m always going to.”

Alex stiffens at that, but dissolves into stony silence, and for a moment, Willy regrets silencing the laughter from not moments before. This was supposed to be a fun, relaxing night. Luckily their waitress comes back with their food not too long after, and eating stifles the silence into something bearable.

And this tension persists even under the light conversation they pick back up, while Willy drops money for the bill, while he looks with a worried gaze and Alex refuses to meet it.

Prying is in Willy’s nature, and he’s learned to reign it in because he’s  _ learned _ just how much it can throw up Alex’s walls and strengthen them to impervibility. So in Stockholm’s back streets, he is quiet, loops an arm comfortably over Alex’s shoulder and does not press the matter of bruising.

Alex turns his head to look at him, smiles a slow sort of sad smile. “I’ll explain—“ he says, “Soon. Not yet, but soon.”

…

It’s late when Willy’s phone starts its incessant vibrating. (It’s  _ been _ vibrating ever since the game ended, but maybe this is the only notification that really matters).

“Congrats.” says Alex, voice tinny and sounding far away even with the edge of his phone digging into his ear. “That was quite a goal.”

“Thanks.” says Willy.

“Always skating to impress.” And it’s an old joke, and yet—

“What’s wrong?” He asks instead of laughing, because he can hear it, even with six times zones between them and shitty cell service –the way the upbeat tone of Alex’s voice isn’t pitched quite right to be genuine.

There’s a pause then, “I’m – I’m not going to ruin your night, Willy.”

“ _ Bullshit _ , Alex.”

There’s silence from the other end of the line, just staticy noise and the whir of a fan.

“ _ Alex— _ “ says Willy.

“I just—“ There’s a hesitation, palatable even across an ocean. “—I miss you.” Alex’s voice drops to barely a whisper at the end, and Willy can imagine him on his bed, back to the headboard and knees pulled up close to his chest.

“I know,” He says, going for lighthearted. “I saw your Instagram post.”

“Willy—“

“I know.” Willy repeats, more solemn this time, one hand carding through his hair.

And he’s been excited for his opportunity to live overseas, for the independence and everything. But he hears Alex’s voice, the longing, the melancholy, and has never despised this distance between them more. Because he’s not the greatest with words –some things are better done than said, right? Because a good hug says a lot more than any words could, you know?

And in this moment, there’s nothing he wants more than to curl up with Alex until the pain drains from his voice and homesickness bleeds out from both their veins.

He wants, but what he wants can’t happen in this reality.

“I miss you too, Alex.” he says softly.

Alex sighs on the other end, long and wistful, and it loosens something, washes over this silence that only seemed to amplify the distance between them. They talk as they always do, until Alex on the other end is gasping for breath from laughing too hard, and Willy shows a rare moment of maturity and declares they both need to sleep.

There’s a pause after Alex tells him goodnight, and Willy waits –what is one more in this conversation that’s been riddled with them?

“—don’t hang up.” Alex whispers finally, and Willy smiles.

“I won’t.”

He falls asleep with Alex’s breath in his ear. It’s not perfect –an imperfect simulation that lacks all physical presence. But it’s something; some tenuous thread that Willy finds he needs just as much as Alex does.

If he sleep better than night too, well, then it’s more than worth getting yelled at the next day for racking up their phone bill.

…

They’re lucky to be unplagued by sickness throughout their years; the products of too much sunshine and dirty limbs, cool lake water kissing sweaty skin, too many dares, and a tendency to eat food off the floor.

But they’re not immune. A grim reminder that reaches Willy with his head in Kappy’s lap, phone vibrating from where it’s fallen deep in a crevice of the couch.

In his post-nhl retirement, Dad had enthusiastically taken up the mantle of caring for them in sickness. But now, Dad still has a team to coach in Mississauga, and Willy’s there almost the moment he gets texted in as backup. He might have already been on his way the moment Alex’s ‘ _ not feeling too good’ _ text had pinged into his phone, but no one needs to know that really.

The truth remains he would have come anyway, regardless of necessity or not –of only for his own sanity.

(They probably already guessed).

Willy lets himself in and finds Alex on the couch wrapped in several blankets looking like death only slightly warmed over. The little seed of worry that always seems to be wedged next to his heart quickly surges to full bloom even before he’s kicked his shoes off and flung his coat into an empty chair.

“How’re you doing?” He asks quietly, maybe a little obviously.

Alex, for his credit, attempts to fix him with an unimpressed gaze, but any effect is acutely ruined by the red of his nose and the fact he starts sneezed piteously only seconds later.

“Did you take anything?” Willy tries instead.

Alex nods, reaching for his tissue box. “Yeah,” he rasps between blowing his nose, voice sounding positively shot. “’Bout an hour ago. Dad—“ He waves his hand in the vague direction of the counter where pill boxes and an extra-large bottle of that cherry cough syrup sit.

Willy wrinkles his nose at the thought of the taste. “Gross—I brought you ice cream.” He says, even though it’s not Alex’s cheat day and it’s definitely not his. The way Alex’s face brightens when he asks if it’s chocolate makes it more than worth it though. Willy rolls his eyes. “—of course.”

He leaves Alex with the TV remote and the rapidly melting tub of ice cream while he rummages through the kitchen for something of more nourishment.

He’s no chef, and any attempt at replicating the soup their mom used to make during childhood bouts of sickness probably wouldn’t end up great. But he’s not  _ stupid _ , heating a can of soup up on the stove is well within his repertoire.

It’s almost fifteen minutes later that he returns to the living room to shove a bowl of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup into Alex’s hands.

Alex sips at the broth and only gets through half the bowl before he starts to doze off, and Willy just manages to tug the ceramic bowl from increasingly lax hands before he has a bigger mess to clean up.

“C’mon.” He says, tugging one of the blankets from where it’s tucked carefully around Alex’s legs. Alex pouts piteously at him, but Willy remains adamant. “You can’t sleep on the couch.”

He ends up half carrying him the thirty feet or so to the bedroom, only struggling a little to keep him upright and yank down the covers of his bed. Alex’s eyes are already drifting closed when his head hits the pillow, and Willy moves to click off the bedside lamp.

“—Stay?” Alex says quietly from the fringes of consciousness, and Willy freezes, hand still a few centimeters from the switch. He feels the smile tug at his mouth, knows the affection that glints too easily in the depths of blue eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere. Dad’s not gunna be back til late anyway.” Willy says fondly, moving to tug the blanket straight. He had plans that included crashing on the couch anyway. Alex may be going on eighteen now, but Willy wasn’t going to just  _ leave _ him.

“No—” Alex’s flush deepens as he stares off at some point over Willy’s shoulder, gaze catching his before it quickly flits away again. “Um –stay. Here?”

_ Oh. _

“ –sorry. I don’t know why I—“

“No—“ interrupts Willy, finally reaching to turn the light off. “Of course.” _Anything_ _for you._

He wiggles from his jeans and carefully crawls next to Alex (and he remembers when this wasn’t such a rarity; and for a moment, he  _ misses _ ). Alex’s skin feels hot to the touch, yet he still curls in towards Willy, breath whistling slightly through his nose as it evens toward sleep. It’s dark, but Willy can sense the peacefulness settling between them.

And Willy reaches to nudge him once in the ribs, gently, amusement cracking his voice.

“I swear to god, if you get me sick I’m going to kill you.”

…

Wins in overtime get the rowdiest, especially after some obscene surge from behind –doesn’t matter how many times it happens;  _ winning _ never runs dull. So it’s really no surprise that it’s ages before Willy even touches his phone.

It takes even longer to scroll through all the congrats text messages and media notifications, he   
really needs to take a better look at his settings, maybe get this obscene number of red numbers a little lower.

But it only takes him a moment to realize Alex’s is strangely missing.

Not exactly shocking, but a rarity, especially when they’re not in the midst of some argument or another. It nudges at something, plants a seed or worry in Willy’s gut, but Auston’s doing some weird shit over with Mitch that’s making him laugh his ass off. It’s really  _ far _ too easy to set his phone down and saunter over, shedding his gear as he goes. His mistake.

He doesn't see it until much much later, a twitter notification hidden amidst all the others.  _ Nylander takes bad hit does not return to game.  _ Willy's out of his seat almost before it really sets in, phone digging into his ear as he pushes out into a chilly Toronto winter night, the stench of alcohol still strong in his nose.

The phone rings too many times and Willy counts them. It's one away from Alex's voicemail when he finally picks up.

“Alex?” He says the moment the line is live. “I just saw, are you alright?” There's a beat of silence, and Willy's heart drops at it.

“Yeah--” Alex says finally. “It's nothing severe --just, precautionary.”

Some of the tension he's been carrying tumbles out with his sigh, fingers picking absentmindedly at   
the brick wall he's leaned up against. “Good. That's good.”  _ I'd been so scared.  _ “---hope they got him good for that.”

“Yeah-- yeah. I'm alright, Willy.”

“You'd tell me if you weren't?”

“What kind of question is that? ----you're always the first I want to tell.” Another beat. “---I wish you were here.”

Willy sighs, leans his head back against the wall, eyes screwed shut as he wishes there was something he could  _ do _ besides stand outside some stupid bar hours away from Alex. But there’s nothing, he’s just a voice at the other end of the phone.

“I know--” Willy says quietly. “--me too.”

…

Alex’s bedroom door is closed --which isn’t a  _ rarity _ . He is a teenage boy after all and teenage boys need their privacy for ------ _ stuff _ . But it’s odd now, because it’s just him and Alex and dad right now, and this is a time when most doors remain flung wide-open. There aren’t many secrets between them.

But now, Willy is faced with the solid oak of Alex’s door. “Alex?” He says, exasperated. “Dinner’s ready.” He waits, hears nothing but silence. No reply. No nothing. “ _ Alex. _ ” Nothing. “For fucks sak--” Their doors don’t lock and Willy almost tears open Alex’s with a few choice words on his tongue because he’s  _ hungry  _ dammit.

They dissipate almost immediately.

Alex hasn't cried in years. Neither of them have, not over anything meaningful anyway. (If Willy tears up during some cheap movie no one needs to know). And it's been so long that Willy is almost shocked into freezing at the sight of wet tracks down Alex's cheeks. How long has it been since--? A surge of protectiveness automatically rises up in his chest not half a millisecond later.

“-----Alex?”

“Fuck off, Willy.”

Willy looks at Alex, at the curve of his back, at knees pulled close to his chest, at the way his body seems to cave in on itself, and absolutely does not fuck off. He doesn’t say anything either, just steps over the threshold and shuts the door behind him.

“Need a great comforting hug from your best big bro? I have on pretty good authority that they’re top notch.”

Alex does not laugh, only tightens arms around his legs and bites his lower lip.

The grin fades from Willy’s face and he crosses the room, sits almost gingerly next to Alex. There is no hesitation in the arm that wraps around quivering shoulders, in the way he hugs Alex the best he knows how.

Alex cries silently into the fabric of Willy’s shirt, curved less into his own body and more into the solid lines of his brother. Willy lets him, doesn’t mind the weight --welcomes it, relishes it.

(He would do anything for Alex’s happiness, you know.)

“It’ll be alright.” He tells Alex quietly, empty words though he still means every syllable. Alex just grips him tighter, and Willy rubs circles into his back.

Eventually Alex runs out of tears and they sit in silence, while he leans his head onto Willy’s shoulder and fidgets with bracelets circling his wrist. Questions burn in the back of his throat, but Willy gives Alex the quiet solidarity of his presence.

In the end, does it really matter  _ why _ ?

“So--” asks Willy finally. “Is there anyone I need to hurt?”

“No.” says Alex beside him, small. Plaintive.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

Alex manages a watery smile, small but genuine --bumps his arm against Willy’s briefly. “Better now.”

…

This is real. The air always feels more alive in times like this, cracking around his skin and making every centimeter tingle. It’s not a home game, but the arena still roars in the wake of their victory because it’s Buffalo and to the Leafs Nation two hours is hardly a commute at all.

(There is more --Willy thinks-- then there is of blue and gold).

And this is real, the noise and the smile on his face as he skates hard into Auston, because this is two points closer to playoffs.

Alex is here too, already disappeared down the tunnel; and Willy wants for a moment, but it passes quickly.

To put it very lightly: the Leafs have a good game; the Sabres do not.

Everyone loves winning, but learning to lose is most nearly as important. And the Leafs have learned to lose, Willy has learned to lose --and he’s learned not to become comfortable with it.

Alex meets him outside the visitor’s locker room, a small smile crossing features, if albeit rueful.

“You had a good game.” He tells Alex, an olive branch of sorts, and it’s the truth even if the rest of the team in navy and gold did not.

“You too. Nice shot.”

“You’re not going to cry because you lost are you?”

“I know who I’m playing for, Willy.”

This tugs a laugh from Willy who in turn flings a friendly arm around Alex’s shoulders. “Great, because I don’t think I could stand radio silence from you all night.”

Alex rolls his eyes again, but does not shake off his arm. And if he leans in close as they exit the arena like some two-headed monster, well, Willy gets it and that's their business alone.

…

_ I need you.  _ Says the text from Alex, and the three words send Willy's heart hurtling painfully against his ribs. He calls back the moment he gets it. Alex doesn't respond.

Panic starts to build beneath his worry, and he tells Auston he can’t go out for drinks anymore. “Alex --Alex--” He fumbles for an explanation of sorts. Mitch just snorts at him, mumbling something about how he’s probably fine, but Auston nods thoughtfully and hushes Mitch. Asshole probably wanted it to just be the two of them anyway. Mitch is probably just salty because now he has to find someone else to buy them alcohol.

But what Mitch wants bears little on Willy right now, and Auston shoos him away with a kind smile. “Tell Alex to feel better.” He says, and Willy nods, already slipping into his coat and shoes.

_ im on my way.  _ He texts in the elevator down.  _ where r u.  _ An address is all he gets in response.

The address turns out to be what is now dubbed ‘Canalside’ as his taxi driver informs him when she asks if he just wants to be dropped off by the ships. He says ‘yes’ figuring it’s got to be close enough.

The ride seems to take far too long, feet tapping anxiously against faded carpet and fingers toying with his phone, pushing his hair back far more times than is necessary. It’s with a small bit of relief that he finally pays his fare.

There’s still plenty of people milling around, and in the gathering twilight Willy can’t find Alex.

_ Im here where r u. _

“Here.” It sounds far too choked and Alex falls too easy into the arms Willy offers, presses himself close and nuzzles his forehead into the crook of Willy’s neck. Willy lets him, even though Alex has an inch and some on him Willy was made for this, an instinct he was born with and can’t outgrow.

“I’m here.” sooths Willy, fingers tangled in the ends of Alex’s hair. Against his shoulder, Alex breathes a bit easier. Eventually he pulls away, and Willy doesn’t ask any questions.

They walk in silence along the length of the pier, an already dead sun long past the horizon and taking the last glimmers of daylight with it. Willy recognizes it vaguely from last year, though it had been sunnier and warmer the day he’d conducted an ‘interview’ with Alex for Leafs tv.

“Alex--” begins Willy. Alex leans on the railing, stares into the dark water lapping metal retainments a few feet below. “You don’t have to--”

He trails off. It’s dark and it’s by the light of a streetlamp that he sees Alex turn toward him, something vulnerable in his eyes. “I was --thinking too much about too many things.” He begins almost haltingly, “and it just got too out of hand and --and it was so  _ overwhelming _ . I didn’t think it was going to stop, and I didn’t know what to do but you. You’re  _ you _ and then you --you stopped it.”

Willy says nothing, stares at Alex’s profile for a moment, leans up against the railing next to him and stares across the lake. A moment passes, wind courses cold down the pier, and Alex huddles into his side.

…

When Alex was little, thunder made more than just the timbres of their house shake.

Willy's always loved watching thunderstorm roll in on dark clouds over the horizon. There's something purifying about rain and light that can split darkness.

Alex did not agree. He never did.

They all learned quickly how much Alex hated thunder and lightning, and how only Willy seemed to be the only one with the ability to calm him. Willy never minded --it made him feel needed; it felt  _ right _ .

Alex gets over his phobia of storms by the time he’s ten, and though Willy would never admit it, there’s some part of him that misses the way Alex would burrow into his side and hide his face until it was all over.

They're both older now. They both have bigger things to worry about than flashes of thunder and the booming crack of thunder.

Willy remembers the fight too; the way he’d almost automatically wrapped an arm around Alex’s shoulder when heavy black clouds broke and Alex snapping about not being eight years old and afraid anymore.

(That hurt more than he let on too --but Willy understands growing now, understands convention).

But there are still times like this, when rain snaps at the windows and the house is so large and empty that Alex comes to him, though this is not so much a fear of something else as it is a seeking of something familiar.

And this is more than familiar, something worn out through years and years like a good pair of sweatpants.

“I thought you didn’t need me to protect you anymore.” teases Willy, though his arm tightens reassuringly around Alex’s shoulders where it belongs.

Alex doesn’t stir, merely clutches fingers more tightly. “You always make me feel safe,” he says into the fabric of Willy’s sweatshirt.

“Even through all the pranks?” He teases, and Alex shifts away far enough to roll his eyes and dig an elbow between Willy’s ribs.

“Even through all the pranks,” says Alex, relaxing back into his side, legs tucked up on the couch. “I never realize sometimes --I --I need you, you know.” he continues quietly over the hiss of rain after a moment.

Willy doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a warmth in his veins and a fond smile on his lips. After a moment he drops a kiss to the crown of Alex’s head, rests his cheek against platinum strands.

“Alex --I'll always be here for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little more disjointed that I would have liked, but hopefully you enjoyed anyway! Always room for a little more Wholesome fic out there right??? Anyway, thanks so much for reading fam and I see and appreciate every one of you. Kudos/comment/share/rec if you liked, I'll love you forever. As always, you can find me [here](http://www.thenylanderbros.tumblr.com).


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